


Comment Dit-On, ‘Get the Fuck out of My Room?’

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU--University, Birthday Present, Cuddling, Drabble, Drunk!Merlin, French, M/M, Studious!Arthur, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, while studying for his French midterm, a very drunk Merlin stumbles into Arthur's room, mistaking it for his own. Cuddling ensues. Drabble written from a prompt for deanpendragon's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comment Dit-On, ‘Get the Fuck out of My Room?’

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deanpendragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanpendragon/gifts).



> This was written from a prompt for deanpendragon (http://deanpendragon.tumblr.com/) for her birthday. She's pretty bitchin', you should all send her some well wishes.

_Je parle, tu parles, il parle_ …

Arthur ran the conjugations over and over in his head until he felt he’d vomit French ( _gerber le français_ ) all over his desk. A dull, round pressure pushed against the back of his eyes; he ground the heel of his palms into them to keep them from popping out of his head. When he blinked his eyes open again, the tight typeface of his textbook blurred and swam before him.

_Nous parlons, vous parlez, ils parlent_ …

It wasn’t his fault he was shit with languages—one just couldn’t be exceptionally talented at maths and economics and sports _and_ languages; it just wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world. And despite his best efforts to explain to his advisor that he’d never actually use French in the real world ( _do people even_ speak _French anymore_?), he had been utterly unable to convince him to let Arthur drop the class. Thus studying the night before the midterm ( _reviser la nuit avant l’examen_ ).

Adjusting in his seat, wondering when his ass had gone numb, Arthur refocused on the verb tables before him, doing his best to block out the incessant _wowamp-wowamp-wowamp_ of music pulsating through his dorm walls. What was the point of having a single if you still had to live with your neighbor’s constant noise pollution? He could, of course, walk next door to Gwaine’s and ever so _politely_ ask him to please try and keep it down, but every time he ever-so-nonchalantly ran his fingers through his hair as he flashed that smug grin, the one made it look like he could give two shits whether or not the dorm was on fire, Arthur had to fight the violent urge to deck him.

So. Studying.

_Je parlerai, tu parleras, il parl_ —

Arthur’s head snapped up as the handle on his door jiggled, then turned as an obviously inebriated stranger stumbled blithely into the room.

“May I help you?” Arthur hoped his tone sounded more indignant than startled; he could not help but jump at the sudden intrusion. The raven-haired man, oddly familiar, cast a languid look about himself, as if he were a renter examining a potential property. He was all limbs, pale skin poking out of his damp t-shirt, a flush about his face as if he’d just been dancing. In one engorged swallow he killed the beer he’d been clutching, then set it down (without asking) on Arthur’s dresser. “I said,” Arthur stalked one, two tentative steps towards the intruder, “may I _help_ you?”

As if noticing him for the first time, the other man gazed up at Arthur, eyes twirling a bit in their sockets, belatedly coming to focus on his face. He cocked an eyebrow in exaggerated surprise.

“Wha’ you doin’ in mah room?” His speech, thick and slurred, smacked of imagined insult.

“ _Your_ room? This is _my_ room!” Arthur gestured about widely, the sweep of his arms taking in the football posters, the bookshelves stacked with business and management texts, his bed, piled high with laundry. “ _You_ do not live here.” Arthur huffed bullishly and tried to calm himself down. He’d seen this man before, coming and going from Gwaine’s at all ungodly hours of the night and day. Surely this was some prank, some way to exact revenge on Arthur for calling the RA last month and shutting down the party, which, in Arthur’s defense—not that he even _needed_ to defend himself!—had been going on since before 8pm, and seeing at it was _four in the morning_ when he finally cracked he felt perfectly justified. Gwaine must have sent this skinny waif of a friend ( _what was his name? Arthur had heard it often enough through the walls. Max…Manny…Merlin!_ ) to taunt and rile him, knowing, somehow _knowing_ he was up late studying for an important exam. Fucker ( _salope_ ).

For a moment Arthur hoped he’d gotten through to him, thought he appeared on the verge of turning and leaving, but then Merlin seemed to think better of it and shoved— _shoved!_ —past Arthur and walked over to his bed to start worming his way out of his shirt, which was no easy task, seeing how the sodden cotton clung to his skin, advancing by slow inches to reveal a lean milky torso as he shimmied, rocking his hips and undulating his chest as he worked his shirt up and over his head.

“Just _what_ do you think you’re doing?” Arthur spun Merlin round by the shoulder, except he just kept spinning, eventually toppling backwards onto Arthur’s bed. But with unforeseeable resilience he sprang, almost instantaneously, back to his feet, leveling an accusatory finger at Arthur (well, technically, at the lamp a little to Arthur’s right, but you could see what he was going for).

“Listen mate, I dunno who you are, but fine, crash ‘ere if you want, just don’t wake meh, got it?” With that, he threw back the cover on Arthur’s bed (sending a rain of dirty clothes cascading onto the floor) and climbed beneath them, snuggling his face—cheekbones—into the pillow.

Arthur tried, truly tried, to wrestle him out of bed, but he clung with such forceful obstinacy (how could someone so _lanky_ be so _strong_?) that eventually Arthur, red-faced and embarrassingly out of breath, had to resign himself to sharing the night with a drunken fool. Studying after such an ordeal was out of the question; he did his best to concentrate, but the constant shifting of sheets (not to mention snoring) kept shaking him out of any groove he managed to work himself into. At last he gave up entirely, blaming his inevitable failure on the cursedly attractive bloke cuddled up in his bed.

Which raised the question of where he was going to sleep. There was absolutely no way Arthur would submit to sleeping on his own floor, but forcing Merlin out of his bed seemed just as unlikely. For long minutes he shifted from foot to foot, debating whether or not he should suck it up and climb in beside him. At first the idea seemed ridiculous—Arthur, share his bed with a complete and total stranger? But it wasn’t like he had very many options available to him, and he needed a decent night’s rest if he was going to get a grade approaching something even remotely passable…besides, Merlin had given him permission to crash (which, Arthur reminded himself, was not his prerogative _at all_ ). At last, Arthur bundled up his courage and scampered over the sleeping form, carefully not to step on his stomach (not _too_ hard, at least). After a brief struggle over blankets, Arthur settled his head down on the bare mattress (the pillow being otherwise occupied) and fell asleep.

He awoke tangled in limbs, of which only half belonged to him. In the night Merlin had thrown his leg over Arthur and wrapped a sinewy arm round his middle, effectively trapping him. Try as he might, he could neither free himself nor shake the other man awake, could only wriggle in his grasp. He turned to glare at the sleeping face, but there was something about the way the light fell across it, an illuminating strip that made his hair resplendent and his skin shine like pearl, that made the breath catch in Arthur’s throat. Thick, heavy lashes fluttered, barely, as his eyes, shut beneath pale lids, moved in dream. Pressed close as they were, Merlin’s breath puffed against Arthur’s face, slow and warm. Arthur knew he should force his way free, knew he had probably overslept and his test would be starting any minute now, but there was something in the weight and warmth of Merlin that made it entirely impossible to move. It was almost as if he were enchanted, caught in some fairytale spell, the type broken only by a kiss. This was, Arthur reminded himself, the 21st century, and such thoughts were foolish, more suited to some addled schoolgirl than a nearly grown man, but he let himself sit with the image for a while, imagined leaning forward the few, desperate inches that separated them, of pressing his lips to Merlin’s own, soft and slow, of watching those too-blue eyes flutter open, of Merlin, kissing him back. He’d flunk the test, maybe even the course, but it that’s what it took to steal a few more minutes curled up here like this, dreaming, then, well… _tant pis pour lui_.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first foray into AU, and I must say, I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. I was trying to capture Arthur's inner voice (hence the italics), which I hope I did with a modicum of success. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I welcome any and all thoughts.
> 
> And happy birthday deanpendragon!


End file.
